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"Fully dressed in the ancestral Terminator Armour of their Chapter they rise to a new level of battlefield supremacy, a level where monstrous tanks are but playthings of a child, and where Terminators, Daemons and gods stalk as equals." -Thunder and Lightning, White Dwarf 116 (UK)Index Astartes: Red Shoulders+ Proudly lead farming since 8th edition +Ferum Caelum - A Raven Guard One-shot

Quantum

Posted 03 January 2019 - 08:09 AM

"An honorable loss is still defeat. A dishonorable win is still victory."

- Warmaster MacCallen, notorious pragmatist.

Edited by QuantumCollider, 03 January 2019 - 08:31 AM.

Race Bannon and Tarvek Val like this

"The Nova Terra Interregnum has been remembered unfairly by those few who remember it at all. True, many malcontents, provocateurs and petty lordlings flocked to its banner when it seceded. But its attempts to contain the aggressive expansion of the Ecclesiarchy were born from an honest desire to uphold those values at the hart of the Great Crusade. It is ironic that the last gasp of the Emperor's true vision was finally throttled at the hands of those who fought in His divine name, on the planet that once reminded our Lord of 'Urf, long ago...'"
- Archivist & Historian Vedek Parsen, pilloried, emasculated, hung, drawn, crucified, quartered, burnt and disintegrated for heresy extremus. Probably in that order.

Tarvek Val

Posted 06 January 2019 - 05:55 AM

Tarvek Val

+FRATER DOMUS+

+ FRATER DOMUS +

288 posts

Location:Nostramo

Faction: Night Lords

Treason's Price

[Uldregor – 008.M31]

Dereskh was sawing off someone’s head with a serrated combat knife when Varkh approached him. His vision blurring from some half-forgotten blow to the head and the bite of the ever-present Nails, it takes Varkh several seconds to realize that the head had once belonged to an Ultramarines captain. The captain, now certainly deceased, lay slumped upon his right side, hand outstretched towards a bolt pistol that he would never manage to reach. Dereskh works his blade in ever-more frantic motions, fingers clenching about the wrapped leather hilt of his blade as he carves through his fallen foe’s throat and into the bone below.

‘Brother,’ Varkh forces the word out through clenched teeth, ‘where is… hnngh… where is Ulskar?’

The other World Eater doesn’t reply, too focused on his task to offer any response to his brother’s question. Hssk, hssk, the knife scrapes across the reinforced bones of the nameless captain’s spine. Animilastic growls emanate from Dereskh’s helm, as he works with increasingly frantic vigor. Interspersed between the incoherent snarls were clumsy attempts at speech – Varkh makes out the words ‘blood’ and ‘skulls’ several times.

He tries again, reaching a hand out towards his brother, who kneels on the blood-soaked ground of Uldregor. The mixture of gore, black soil, and spilled oils have darkened Dereskh’s already-filthy armor.

‘Where is the captain?’ Varkh asks again.

There is no reply. Shaking his head as the Nails begin to bite once more and rage floods into his spine, Varkh casts his gaze upon the battlefield surrounding the two warriors. He sees Ulskar almost immediately, and laughs – a harsh, growling chuckle that contains no true mirth. His captain is as dead as the Ultramarine lying forgotten behind him, the fallen World Eater slumping against the ruin of a Predator tank.

Hearing a voice behind him, Varkh turns to see Dereskh stumbling towards him, a manic glee in his dark eyes. The second World Eater has lost his helmet in the seconds since Varkh lost sight of him; that, or he had cast his helm to the bloody soil.

‘Blood,’ Dereskh hisses, drool hanging from the corners of his mouth, ‘blood and skullssss!’

With a feeling of hollow despair, Varkh realizes that his brother is making for Ulskar’s corpse, knife in one hand and the Ultramarine’s head in the other.

‘No. His skull is not yours to take.’

Barely even realizing what he is doing, Varkh interposes himself between Dereskh and their fallen captain. His chainaxe revs to life in his right fist.

Not even hesitating, Dereskh hurls himself forwards with a howl of fury.

‘Bloodskullsdeathmurderbloodskulls -’

***

Varkh stands motionless, chainaxe idling in his hand. Dereskh lies before him, torn nearly in two by the apocalyptic strike of the purring weapon.

Damn you, the World Eater thinks, damn you for falling to the so-called Crimson Path. Is this to be the fate of us all?

He spits, and snarls three simple words. A curse.

‘For our honor.’

Edited by Tarvek Val, 06 January 2019 - 05:57 AM.

Race Bannon, Dosjetka and RikuEru like this

"Our holy hatred will make us free!" ~Nameless Dark Apostle

"Though my guards may sleep and ships may rest at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire." ~Huron Blackheart

"You shall stand in midnight clad, your claws forever red with the lifeblood of my father's failed empire, warring through the centuries as the talons of a murdered god. Rise, my sons, and take your wrath across the stars, in my name. In my memory. Rise, my Night Lords." ~Konrad Curze, the Night Haunter

Meta Knight

Posted 08 January 2019 - 07:56 AM

Meta Knight

+FRATER DOMUS+

+ FRATER DOMUS +

54 posts

“...and next, Brother-Captain Mombasa, Storm Giants Chapter.”

Stone-faced, Mombasa steps forward. “For unflinching courage in the face of overwhelming repugnance, we honor Brother-Captain Mombasa and his warriors, whose notable actions, among others, turned back the daemon hordes and spared a village of three thousand Imperial citizens from the horrors of the Warp.” Mombasa does not kneel to accept the laurel crown, as other commanders have done. He takes the ring of leaves in his armoured fist and steps back wordlessly. “May the honors of this victory remain in perpetuity upon the banners of the Storm Giants, and their valour remain everlasting. And next, Brother-Lieutenant Castor of the Ultramarines…”

The remembrancer drones on and on. His words fade as Mombasa’s gaze settles on a burning brazier. The laurels crumple in his fist as the flames transfix his senses, spitting and crackling…

The crackling discharge of lasguns fills the air, bleak and macabre. Another group of civilians is ushered before the mass grave like cattle, crying and pleading for mercy. Beyond, dozens of black-clad stormtrooper teams carry out similar executions, and the air is thick with the screams of the innocent.

Mombasa storms through the atrocious proceedings, his steps laced with furious purpose. Even firing squads of stormtroopers scurry out of his way, until he finds himself before Constantinov. Seated upon his grav-throne, chin resting in palm, the inquisitor almost looks bored.

“What insanity is this?” Mombasa seethes. He shakes his fist toward the systematic slaughter of a population. “What do you think you are doing?”

For a moment, the inquisitor seems taken aback. None, even among the Emperor’s Angels, have challenged him so openly. In moments, his smug composure returns. “Standard procedure, brother-captain. Population cleanse. We are ensuring no trace of daemonic taint remains upon Sargon V before repopulation.”

Mombasa approaches the tiny man. Even raised on the grav-throne, Constantinov’s head barely reaches Mombasa’s chest. “My brothers died to save these people,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “For what? For you to cull them like swine?”

“This is well within the authority of the Inquisition, captain. The Inquisition, may I remind you, that supersedes even Astartes jurisdiction.”

Like a striking snake, Mombasa grabs Constantinov by the collar, lifting him until their eyes meet. “That authority is the only thing keeping your head upon your shoulders, mortal,” he whispers ferociously.

The inquisitor’s aide pipes up desperately. “Great victory was achieved here, my lord, a victory impossible without your gallant intercession. You have only won honor here, unless your temper guides you to recklessness.”

With immense effort, Mombasa drops Constantinov back in his chair. “You speak of honor as if it can be worn like armour, as if it absolves you of these sins. What are laurels and accolades worth when we burn worlds we have bled to save?”

Constantinov says nothing, his eyes burning furiously. Mombasa’s gaze mirrors his own as he turns to walk away.

“Congratulations on your victory, inquisitor,” he says coldly. “When you are done here, examine the cost.”

Race Bannon

Posted 17 January 2019 - 06:05 PM

Race Bannon

++ MUNUS SPECIALIS AGNITIO ++

++ MODERATI ++

9,078 posts

Location:Area 88

Faction: Raven Guard

Blood filled his mouth, forcing the Astartes to cough. The hot fluid fell onto his face, revealing he was no longer standing. Opening his eyes, Revan saw the sky above was filled with projectile and laser fire from every direction. Looking down, over battle-scarred armor, the Raven Guard’s legs were missing. His head fell to the ground and turned left. Seeing a target, Revan’s fingers closed onto the grip of his bolter, he raised the weapon from the ground and squeezed the trigger. A Necron Warrior stalking nearby reeled from the impact and fell. Darkness consumed the Astartes.

+++

Apothacarion Kovac pulled off the helmet and pressed the Reductor to the Marine’s neck.

“V – victor –“, Revan gargled on stale blood then continued. “Aut. Mor-“, he choked until Kovac cleared the clot from his mouth with an armored finger.

“The Brother-Ancient still lives”, Kovac reported with some surprise.

Behind him stood Shadow Captain Solaq. Nodding, he replied, “It’s Corax’s will that he lives.”

Revan lost consciousness.

+++

He forced opened eyes. Amniotic fluid blurred his vision and his immediate confusion was replaced with remembering this was a stage of recovery from massive trauma. Floating inside a tube, he was sure what remained of his torso was connected to life sustaining machinery. Tubes sealed his nose, feeding oxygen to his lungs. His neck muscles strained to look around and a few other medical pods were in use nearby while many more were empty.

Lifting his left arm, Revan noticed two lower fingers were missing. Raising his right arm, he realized the muscle memory was there, but not his arm.

Looking down, a Servitor turned and walked away.

+++

The persistent thud of armored boots walking nearby woke Revan. Still in the medical tube, he saw Solaq and the Master of the Forge looking up to him. Revan waited knowing it was not his place to speak first.

Solaq pressed a button on a console nearby. “Ancient Revan. You fought gloriously on Thoran, yet your injuries are severe. We have done all that can be done to now.”

Revan opened his mouth and expected the rush of liquid. Pushing it out as he spoke, his voice was muffled as bubbles floated out. “Was the Chapter triumphant?”

The Shadow Captain shook his head solemnly.

“Then help me return to my Brothers to know more of the joy of life.”

The Techmarine stepped up. “Brother-Ancient, there is only one path for you to walk amongst the Chapter again. Or know that your task is done. You are fortunate to have the choice. We will honor your decision.”

Revan closed his eyes. “There is no joy without victory. Death will not claim me this way.”

Solaq replied, “Victorus aut mortis.” Stepping away from the console, he turned to the Master Techmarine and nodded an agreement.

Edited by Race Bannon, 18 January 2019 - 02:35 AM.

Bjorn Firewalker, RikuEru and Tarvek Val like this

"Fully dressed in the ancestral Terminator Armour of their Chapter they rise to a new level of battlefield supremacy, a level where monstrous tanks are but playthings of a child, and where Terminators, Daemons and gods stalk as equals." -Thunder and Lightning, White Dwarf 116 (UK)Index Astartes: Red Shoulders+ Proudly lead farming since 8th edition +Ferum Caelum - A Raven Guard One-shot

Race Bannon

Posted 17 January 2019 - 08:51 PM

Well done, Race Bannon. I presume Brother Revan will become a Dreadnought. Will the Dreadnought frame bear a power sword with a violet blade, like his namesake's?

On the nose and lookit that. Coincidence is the universe telling you it's all been done before...

"Fully dressed in the ancestral Terminator Armour of their Chapter they rise to a new level of battlefield supremacy, a level where monstrous tanks are but playthings of a child, and where Terminators, Daemons and gods stalk as equals." -Thunder and Lightning, White Dwarf 116 (UK)Index Astartes: Red Shoulders+ Proudly lead farming since 8th edition +Ferum Caelum - A Raven Guard One-shot